The Angel and the Scarecrow
by uberneko-zero
Summary: Chibi Light is a somewhat disgruntled angel, who is having problems following protocol in heaven. He soon finds this to be the least of his problems.And L is, quite literally, a scarecrow. Straw and all. This is a coherent crackfic with the stylings of a fairy tale. Not too serious, but not lacking in a little suspense. (Light x L)
1. The Littlest Angel

**A/N: This story is one of those random, crackfic misfirings of the brain. It is not intended to be hyper-serious, and is here merely for whatever entertainment value you, the readers, might gain from it. It is styled kind of like a fairy tale. As the title implies, I pictured everyone to be smaller, cuter versions of their normal selves as I wrote this (though not children). I am also not making any religious statements. It was just a fun little quasi-dramatic story I wrote. Hope you find it to be amusing. :D Happy October!**

* * *

**Chibi Theatre:**

**The Angel and the Scarecrow**

Part 1: The Littlest Angel

The littlest angel was bored of heaven.

Bored of singing, of strumming his lyre. Tired of smiling with the warm radiance of soft, golden sunbeams, and tired of laughing with his brethren for the sole purpose of filling the skies with the tinkling chiming of their mirth, like silver bells.

He was the youngest, only several thousand years old, and he felt his age like a heavy weight upon him. He had questions, and odd thoughts circling his mind. Things that weren't suited to blindly following tradition and being nothing but splendor and light.

And that is what they'd taken to calling him, in a fashion he found to be rather close to mockery, for angels. Light. They thought it clever, to refer to him by _that _name as he had no True name yet, and he being more sullen and precocious than they would have liked. It wasn't entirely mean-spirited. The heavenly host doted on him almost cloyingly, praising his luminescence, his songs, and the potential he had, even as one so new. It, at times, had forced him to seek a hiding place, to escape the pressure and constant responsibilities.

However, the host looked down upon this and became impatient with him. When he was about, they urged him to sing, to play, to shine his Essence through the beautiful, refined heavenly body he had been given. It is only a matter of time, then, they claimed, and he would one day be granted his extra wing and The Name That Is Beyond Knowing.

Light wasn't sure he wanted to be granted these things. For it meant maturation for an angel, _Ascension_. And with Ascension came more responsibility and less freedom. Those that climbed the ranks couldn't see the earth, and every time the sky opened up to admit one more of them to the higher areas of heaven, the outpouring of song, praise, and joy was enough to leave him ill with anxiety. He couldn't chain himself to that level of production, he just couldn't. He had interests he wanted to pursue, and his own individuality. If he was selected for Ascension, he feared the worst - assimilation.

Yet they all had such high hopes for him.

"So young," said they. "So talented." They believed him to be favored, that his exceptional beauty was a sign. Some envied him, though they tried to hide it. Some resented him his shining, golden brown locks, his snow white wings, his skin which so easily radiated the light of his Essence and his eyes which were like glowing amber.

He couldn't help the form he was given. It seemed foolish to him that others would judge him by it.

"Light, Light!" Someone was calling for him.

Light rested his chin on his hand and said nothing, moodily hiding behind the bank of a storm cloud until they, hopefully, lost interest.

"Light!"

That name bothered him. He'd been called it so long now, being the butt of that little joke, that he'd forgotten what name came before.

"There you are!" someone exclaimed.

_Damn it_, he thought, cursing as angels ought not to. Oh, but not aloud. Never aloud. So, it would be his little secret. He wearily got to his feet, flapping his lily white wings with a flourish. He felt a slight sting in one, then, a pull or prick which he would have to investigate later. "Greetings to you," he said, smiling as he was supposed to, and flaring his Essence through his skin as a gesture of respect.

"We are to begin the high songs, Light. Your presence is desired. Would you do us the honor?"

It all sounded pleasant enough, but the translation was, 'Come with me, right now, or consequence shall find you.'

Angelic threats may seem an impossibility, but he could assure you that they were quite real, if not a bit obscured by flowery speech. Sword holders, of course, were a different breed. If they felt like being threatening, you would know it. Or you would find yourself quickly dead. They didn't dawdle, those soldier angels, and perhaps, as a lot, they were a bit hasty. (It was usually only the earth people who fared badly at their hands, though.)

* * *

After serving a 12 course meal of exaltation, Light was exhausted. He fluttered his way to a far off cloud and made his bed upon it.

"Damn merrymaking," he muttered to himself. It took a lot of work to offput all the positive energy they were expected to produce.

A sharp twinge in his wing make wince dreadfully. He rolled over and fanned his wing out before him. Searching for the source of the pain, he sorted through his feathers and found one to be tarnished.

_What the?_

But wait, it wasn't just one. There was another as well, a dull, chalky silver touching its surface. The pain was from where it joined the wing. It looked ugly amidst all of the glowing white.

Troubled, Light grabbed hold of one of the feathers and PULLED.

Pain exploded behind his eyes and he fell to his knees, panting and issuing a moan of agony.

After what seemed like a small eternity, the feeling began to pass. He uncurled his clenched fist to look at the ruffled feather upon his palm. As unsightly as it had looked as a part of him, it did not look quite so offensive now. There was a slight shimmer to the silver, which had quickly overcome the entire feather.

Not wanting to be seen with such a thing, he let it fall to the world below, to be destroyed or forgotten, however chance would have it.

Bracing himself, he then set about removing the other one.

* * *

TBC


	2. The Scarecrow

**Chibi Theatre:**

**The Angel and the Scarecrow**

Part 2: The Scarecrow

The scarecrow was a rough-looking fellow, eyes like blackened flint and dark hair like a sea-tossed storm. He held his arms out to the sky every noon, night, and morn.

He did his job well, and gladly, out in the fields, daily. But he was not happy. No folk came to see him, to speak any tidings. In fact, they were taken to do the opposite.

For many years, he told himself, "Work harder and they will come see you. Do a better job so they will congratulate you."

He kept sleepless eyes on the fields as seasons passed, and yet the people also passed, heads down and faces turned aside.

His heart would be heavy, if he had one.

But he was naught but a scarecrow, filled with straw, owner of a hat which he'd lost long ago.

_Maybe one day I'll leave this field_, he thought to himself.

The crows and small animals he was supposed to fend off appeared to him more sociable than those that wanted them gone. _Yes_, he confided to Crow #2 (his name for it), as it settled peaceably upon his shoulder. _I think I will do just that._

The scarecrow looked up at the deep azure blue sky and thought,_ I'll just wait for a sign._

* * *

Crow #3, an old girl with one white crested wing hopped upon the ground, spying something interesting.

**Caw! **she shrieked, enjoying the sound of her own voice. **Caw! **she proclaimed again, sharing with the world her song.

She hopped again, with dark grey feet that seemed to have little springs, and looked curiously at the dirt between the weeds. She snapped up a bug, that looked too tasty to give up, before beaking the strange thing that lay beside. It was not a stick, though it twirled in her beak like one, for it had no leaves - though it caught the breeze. It was the color of clouds before rain, though it shimmered finely, like those things she loved to collect.

She hopped about with it in her mouth, finding it to be a touch unwieldy. This was no pretty bauble that she could bring to her nest.

Her keen eyes swept the area, and touched the sky.

Today was a fine day. Perhaps she would go visit her favorite scarecrow.

* * *

The scarecrow kept endless watch over the fields, a little glumly these days. The stick at his back, holding him upright, seemed more of a prison than a home to him now. The small block of wood under his straw-filled feet was the same.

_A shame, a shame._

He wanted to hang his head, but he did not. For he had pride in his work, and to have none would see him rot.

* * *

Crow #2 had such trouble with the-thing-that-was-not-a-stick, that she implored Crow #4 to help her. Neither of them knew their silently ascribed (by the scarecrow) names, but knew each other in the language of crow, which is not to be deciphered by those without flight. But if one were to try, they might be called Mary and Ralph. Crow #4 was a young male with a pretty blue sheen to his pristine feathers, which the scarecrow was secretly quite fond of.

**Ca-Caw! Ca-Caw! **Ralph, Crow #4, bleated steadily, somehow, around the thing-that-was-not-a-stick as they carried it through the air.

Old Mary, Crow #2, found this vexing, to be honest, and wished that he had more of a sense of decorum about things. He was such a motor mouth, endlessly filling the sky with his chatter. When he got older, perhaps, he would learn that beauty and brawn were not everything. For now, she tolerated him for his help and congratulated herself for not feeling overly testy about his raucous voice.

**Ca-Caw! Ca-Caw! **

**Ca-Caw! **

* * *

The scarecrow looked to the west, thinking he heard Crow #4's somewhat astringent voice ringing out in the cold October air. He wasn't sure when he'd started being able to tell them all apart, it had just sort of come naturally.

He always liked to see the young, blue-black crow, as he was very beautiful as crows go. However, he wasn't all that sad to see him leave again; he was so very loud.

To the scarecrow's surprise, there was another crow flying with him. Right next to him, in fact. He thought he saw a flash of white as the wings flapped. If so, that would be Crow #2. She seemed older, was quiet, and rather refined as birds go.

They flapped up to him, nearly flying straight into his face before back-beating the air to sort of hover in place. He did not raise his arms to protect himself, so he was glad they'd avoided a crash.

After what seemed like a heated debate between the two, Crow #2 snatched her prize from Crow #4's shiny, ebony beak and flapped awkwardly to alight upon his head. She walked to the front of his shaggy hair, where equally shaggy bangs half obscured his dark eyes, and leaned over the edge, dangling her parcel in front of his face for his perusal.

_It's..._

It was a feather, bathwater grey. Long and slender, angular in the most intriguing of ways, there were tiny rainbows in the pinpricks of light it reflected and a shimmer that was other-worldly.

_It's... beautiful._

Why, it was even more lovely than Crow #4, and that was saying something.

It was the single most contradictingly beautiful thing he had ever seen. Plain, almost ugly at first glance, but then...

Crow #2 regarded him with her round black eyes. She could not tell if the scarecrow was pleased or not with her gift. She decided to assume he was beyond moved - though, in truth, he never did move much. Quite impressed with her own accomplishment, she took the thing-that-was-not-a-stick and tucked it into his coat pocket then leapt into the sky in a flurry of wings.

* * *

That night, as the moonlight caught upon the feather, making it glow with a cool pure blue, something happened.

"My sign?" Scarecrow wondered aloud.

* * *

TBC


	3. The Journey

**Chibi Theatre:**

**The Angel and the Scarecrow**

Part 3: The Journey

As is the way with many things of this earth, the unexpected managed to happen. And so it happened that night, when Scarecrow stepped off his perch.

There was a trick to it, walking. A seemingly easy thing to do, one foot in front of the other, but for those made of straw, it was dodgy at best.

Scarecrow hobbled along the winding dirt path that led out of the village, slouching (rather horribly, he suspected), now that he no longer had a firm stick at his back. He missed it, a little, but reminded himself that freedom came at a price.

* * *

"No, NO, Light, you mustn't rush the song, you must feel the flow of it through your very being, like a golden wind, through to the tips of your wings!" the Choirmaster instructed him.

_What if I don't want to 'feel it to the tips of my wings'?_ Light thought churlishly. The man-angel was insufferable. Prancing about like he knew everything about everything. Light knew full well how to sing. He just didn't _want _to.

"Let your heart _soar _and let your Essence guide you."

_Yeah, I'll let something 'soar' all right, _the littlest angel responded silently, snotty as hell. "Ow!" he yelped, a stinging pain zinging him suddenly.

The choir angels looked at him in concern. "Is something wrong, Light?" many of them murmured, eyes looking him over.

"Heh heh," he laughed awkwardly as he started freaking out a little. "Fine. I'm fine. Just a little joke. Gotcha." Angels weren't supposed to feel pain. What in heaven was going on?

* * *

Scarecrow walked all night before coming to a large gray rock, upon which he decided to sit and rest. He couldn't remember ever feeling tired before.

While he waited for this strange 'tired' phenomena to pass, he took out his second-most treasured possession in the world. It was a feather, the twin of the one gifted to him by the crows. It, too, had that fascinating shine to its otherwise dull silver surface.

He turned it this way and that, admiring the microscopic prisms held in each little sparkle of light the feather reflected and wondered what sort of bird it had come from. Certainly none that he had seen before. Perhaps, if he kept on his journey, he might encounter one.

Bolstered by that thought, he got to his feet, not realizing that in addition to feeling fatigue, having feet at all was also new.

* * *

"Ow-ow-owie," Light ground out as he plucked another dull feather from his gleaming wings. It was a stubborn one, making him screw up his face as he yanked at it.

He was getting used to the pain. Sort of. He just hoped he figured out what was wrong before he suffered premature balding of the wings.

"Sonnuvabit-" he gasped as it finally loosed its hold, making his head swim in a most unpleasant way. There was a trail of blood trickling from the spot on his wing. Before he could catch his breath, however, a new twinge jolted through his other wing.

He was pretty sure now that he was going to cry.

* * *

"Light, where are you hiding?"

"Nowhere," he called back.

"Then why can't I see your shining face?"

"Because I'm invisible," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous," the arch-angel Tobias said, not taking him seriously in the least. "Everyone knows only demons are invisible."

_Oh, God, _Light wailed internally, _am I turning into a demon?_

"Light, come out," Tobias demanded, his tone becoming just this side of testy.

"What else do you know about demons?" Light asked fearfully. "Where do they come from?"

Tobias sighed, though not unkindly. "Why all the questions?"

"Please," Light implored, voice fearful.

The arch-angel sighed again. "Well, as you know, demons are simply angels who fell from grace."

"But what does that mean? How did they fall? Was it all at once? Or did something happen to them that slowly changed them?"

"Light, is something bothering you?"

"Just answer the question, Tobias!" the young angel snapped, violating one of the pacts of speech that bid them to always speak respectfully and gently. _**Gah! **_He cried silently, curling in on himself as pain spiked in his wings.

The arch-angel, not knowing anything was wrong, continued speaking in his leisurely voice. "Some say that part of the host just fell that day, dropping right from the sky like so many raindrops. Though I have also heard that some of the fallen had slower changes of heart and mind which slowly made them unable to fly. That was all before my time, so I cannot tell you for certain."

Great rolling tears flooded down Light's cheeks one by one. _Plip, plip, plip. _More than the fear of Ascension, he now feared that he was going to become one of the fallen.

* * *

Scarecrow traveled and traveled. The people he met still looked upon him strangely, but it was less and less as time went on, and it was better than not being looked upon at all.

He'd found more feathers as he journeyed, not more than three, but it convinced him more than ever that he was on the right path.

His feet itched as he made his way, so he shuffled off the burlap booties that had covered them up till now. Dirt underfoot was an interesting sensation indeed. He wiggled his toes and found the action both pleasing and addictive.

The sun was bright overhead and the wind stirred his hair restlessly. He found himself wishing for his old hat. But, perhaps a new one?

"Excuse me, sir," he said politely to a portly man in the small town square. "Where might I get a hat?"

The man looked at him with a gimlet eye, not sure what to make of him. In the end, however, he pointed to a shop on the other side of the busy area.

"Thank you kindly," the scarecrow said.

The man nodded, then went about his business.

He made his way to the shop of hats and spoke to the women at the counter. "I would like a hat, please," he said in his most polite of voices.

She looked him up and down. "Are you to pay for this hat?" she inquired skeptically, suspicious due to his attire that he had little or no money.

He stared back at her blankly, having no idea what she was talking about.

"What is your name, sir?" she inquired primly.

"I am the scarecrow," he said in confusion.

"That is not a name," she announced. "How can I possibly have a hat for someone without a name?" she said unreasonably, wanting rid of one who could not pay for her wares. "Begone, scarecrow."

Scarecrow shuffled from the shop sadly, feeling rather empty and unsure of what to do. _What's in a name? _he wondered.

* * *

All of heaven was surprised with young Light's turnabout. He was suddenly making the most supreme of efforts in all of his endeavours and the host of angels was simply thrilled with the beauty of his song, the playing of his lyre, and his new, spotless record of behavior. He was a shining example of all that anyone wished to be as one of the elite angels. They just hoped he wasn't chosen soon as he was now very pleasing to be around, and an inspiration to them all.

As it turns out, fear is a great motivator.

Terror of falling from grace drove Light to try to master everything that came his way, in the hopes of saving himself from damnation.

He told no one what was on his mind.

No angel could be trusted with such a thing. He had to keep it secret by keeping it all silent.

As long as he'd kept himself insanely busy bettering himself, he hadn't had any of the pains. It seemed like his plan was working. The only problem was, he was wearing himself right out. If he didn't take a break from it all, and soon, he wasn't sure how long he could last. Could angels expire from stress?

And, well, the other _other_ problem seemed to be that everyone liked him so much better when he was not himself. They praised him for his conformity, for making himself _**not **_himself on the outside, and that pained him in a way that didn't just hurt, but made him very sad.

* * *

TBC


End file.
